This novel tells the story of Herschel Grynszpan, the Polish-German Jewish teenager who fled to Paris in 1936 and two years later shot a German embassy official, giving the Nazis the pretext for Kristallnacht. The novel is told through Herschel’s letters from prison, addressed to the lawyer whom the Nazis appoint to represent him at a planned show trial. This is Herschel’s first letter.
15 October 1940
Honorable Maître Herr Rosenhaus,
What was it I was thinking, when I shot Herr vom Rath? Or, what was in my mind? They are not entirely the same thing, are they, Maître? It was only a few hours ago that you were here, but I am not certain now which of them you asked me.
You might have suggested that I begin with something a bit less difficult, Maître. To describe my family’s rooms in Hannover, for instance. On Burgstrasse. Where I was born. Altogether 27 years they were in Germany, my parents. Until that October. 1938. Which surely you know about. Or to tell about my recent journey from Toulouse to Moulins, brought by the French police. And then to Berlin, in the company of the Gestapo. The very close company. To their building here. To this cell.
But I suppose you are right — where else should we begin? That moment. The revolver. The shots. So, how to describe it? I have heard people say “Time stood still.” A truly stupid expression, Maître. Well, not actual people — in a film. Two films, I think. Many of them say the same things, films. Have you noticed that? Maybe that is why I remember. Anyway, I saw films often during my time in Paris. The two years there before I was in prison, I mean. Before the shooting. Not really so many films — more the same films over and over. You see, I learned that there were a few cinemas where I could stay for many hours during the daytime, no one bothered to check. And safe from the police. Especially nice in winter, these film houses. Somehow always warm there. Saint Martin was the best. And on hot summer days it was cooler. How do they manage that? The Mysteries of Paris. Have you heard that expression, Maître? Although now that I think of it, it was a mystery in most of the Paris rooms where I stayed. And there were quite a few of them. But an opposite mystery there — when it was cold outside, these rooms were somehow colder. And on the awful August days, from most of the rooms I would head out into the melting streets — to cool off. But yes, at the cinema it was better. Cinema Saint Martin, on Rue du Faubourg Saint Martin. And two others near where I lived. Or, where I often stayed, I should say. Because to tell you I actually lived anywhere those two years in Paris would be untrue. Faubourg Saint Denis, the neighborhood is called, 10th arrondissement. Do you know Paris, Maître? Perhaps when you visit me again, we can talk of these things as well.
My apology, Maître — it seems I have lost my way again. The cinema. I was talking about films, seeing films, in Paris. And how I heard there that expression “Time stood still.” To describe a moment of great danger. And fear. Also, in one film I think, about falling in love. Which I admit I know nothing about. Almost nothing. Anyway, what total nonsense. It was not at all like that. Time standing still? That was before, my two Paris years before the shooting — no documents, no home, no work. No me.
But when I fired the shots? Just the opposite — time exploded. Out, but also in. Filling me. The whole room. My entire life. The past and future both. I was 17 years old. Of course, that you know.
The moments just before had been madness — vom Rath and I shouting at each other, then the shots, and the chaos afterward, people screaming and running in the halls, vom Rath staggering, falling, the gun in my hand, all the people, in and out of his tiny bureau, and soon the police. There are many different reports about exactly what happened when I arrived at the embassy that morning, how I managed my way in, and to vom Rath’s bureau on the second floor, what people heard once I was inside. Versions. Confusions. Contradictions. But there is one thing everyone agrees — that after the shooting I sat calmly where I was. Did not move. Said nothing.
It was because of what I felt, Maître. In that instant. Absoluteness. Is it a word? After nothing but worry and doubt and unknowing for so long, the sudden absoluteness of it all.
Joseph Matthews was a longtime criminal defense lawyer. His previous books include the novel “Shades of Resistance” and the story collection “The Lawyer Who Blew Up His Desk.” He lives in San Francisco. www.tinyurl.com/matthews-reasons